


The Night's King's Child

by joely_jo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Old Nan's tales, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 07:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joely_jo/pseuds/joely_jo
Summary: An imagined story of the past from the mouth of Old Nan, the Winterfell master storyteller, told to Jon Snow and Bran Stark as boys. Contains a silly theory of mine that is more than likely not ever going to become canon.





	The Night's King's Child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DKNC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/gifts).



> This story is best read with a knowledge of the books, rather than a knowledge of the show only. That said, it could still be appreciated by an 'unsullied' viewer. 
> 
> Gifted to my great friend and ASOIAF compatriot DKNC, who read this and told me it was okay to post.

“One more and then you must both go to bed, my little ones.”

Old Nan’s quavering voice rose above the crackling of the flames in the hearth and Bran shifted his position in anticipation. It was dark in the nursery, the only light being that thrown out by the fire and the candle that flickered on the table by Nan’s chair. Robb, Sansa and Arya had long since gone to their rooms, leaving just Bran and Jon sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Nan, still enraptured by her tales. Their cups of milk stood empty before them and their eyes were heavy, but still they listened.

“Shall I tell you the tale of the Night’s King?” asked Nan.

“You told us that one the other night,” Jon complained. “Tell us something new.” He glanced conspiratorially at Bran. “Something scarier.”

“More frightening that the Night’s King? My, my, young master Snow, you should beware of such fearlessness. Look what fearlessness got the Night’s King.” Nan tutted under her breath.

“It’s only a story.”

“It may be only a story now,” said Nan, her voice low, “but it was once very real indeed.” She paused. In her lap, her gnarled hands clasped together. “If that story is not enough for you boys, then I shall tell you something you will not have heard before. Something that will make your minds question all and everything and leave you thankful for this roaring fire and for a home and a father who cares for you both.”

Discomfited, Bran looked at Jon. As their eyes met, he felt a shiver run down his back, like a crack appearing in an icy pool. Robb always said that Nan’s stories gave him bad dreams and Sansa disliked to hear anything except tales of heroes and their lady loves, while Arya simply grew bored quickly. But Bran and Jon always wanted more; and when the mood was terrifying, Bran often found himself praying that the truths Nan said were in her tales were just the delusions of age.

Nan seemed to take his silence as agreement and took in a deep breath, clicking her tongue as she found her story-telling voice. “You remember the Night’s King, whom I told you about in that story three nights ago?” She looked at the two boys, who nodded. “Well then you will remember the woman the Night’s King saw from atop the Wall, with her cold, cold skin and her eyes like blue stars… And you will remember how he chased her and found her and loved her and how she took his soul and turned it blacker than a raven’s wing.”

“I remember,” murmured Bran.

“Good,” said Nan. She looked at each boy hard with her watery grey eyes. “Now the Night’s King took this white woman back to the Nightfort and wed her, calling her his queen. And he turned the castle into a place of terror, where for thirteen years great horrors were done in his name. So dreadful were his crimes that men were afraid to speak his name. When Brandon the Breaker and Joramun stormed the Nightfort and took back the castle for the Night’s Watch, they killed the cold woman and the Night’s King fled into the Land of Always Winter, beyond the wall, never to be seen or heard of again.” Nan paused in her telling and her eyes narrowed. “And that is where the story ends… or where it often ends. Few speak of the things that were found inside the Nightfort once the Night’s King had gone. Some say that he and his corpse queen had been making sacrifices to the Others, murdering good men of the Night’s Watch and leaving their bodies in the frozen lands beyond the wall for the Walkers to find and take for their own. Some say that they were sacrificing their own vile offspring. Babes in arms born of their unholy union.”

“The Night’s King had children? Heirs?” Jon interrupted, surprise raising his tone to the edge of panic.

Nan shook her head. “Not heirs, for he was no true king. But children his cold queen had birthed.” She looked at each boy in turn. “Some stories say that it was the boy babes they sacrified, leaving them out in the cold among the trees and freezing air. But one story tells of how Brandon and Joramun found a babe lying in a cradle made of bones in the cold queen’s rooms. The child, a silver-haired boy, who was as beautiful as the moon and pale as ice, with eyes that were purple and haunting, was little more than a week old. Joramun wanted to kill him and burn him, saying he was spawn of the Others, but King Brandon felt the warmth of his skin and knew that hot blood rain in his veins. He knew then that the child was no demon. He offered to take him as ward and raise him alongside his trueborn sons, but Joramun declared this folly and urged him to be rid of a thing that would surely curse his family and his lineage forever.”

Bran leaned forward in eagerness. “So what did they do with him? Did they leave him out for the Others?”

“Oh no, no, my little lord,” Nan replied with a shake of her balding head. “They took the babe back to Winterfell and named him and, for a time, he lived alongside the Starks. He was a quiet, aloof child who spoke little, but had great wisdom and intelligence. As he grew, he showed strange abilities that defied explanation and cast fear into the hearts of men who witnessed his skills. But, King Brandon’s wife believed him to be a demon and saw to it that every other man and woman in the land despised and mistrusted him. King Brandon knew that the boy could not continue to live in the North and remain safe, so one night as the seasons turned, he took him and placed him on a scouting ship, bound for a land far away, where the mountains smoked and the sea was as warm as blood, and bade him never to return.”

Silence filled the nursery as Nan concluded her tale. Bran felt himself swallow and realised he had been holding his breath without noticing. “What happened to him? The child of the Night’s King?”

Nan cleared her throat wetly. “In truth, no-one knows, but if you speak to the people of Westeros, they will tell you that they know of men and women who have silver hair and eyes of purple.”

“The Targaryens…” said Jon in a hushed voice. “Nan!” he exclaimed. “Are you saying that the Targaryens are descendants of the Night’s King’s child?!”

Old Nan chuffed softly. “Oh, I am saying nothing, young Snow. You say what you will from what you have heard. No-one knows what happened to the boy after he reached his destination. He may have lived, he may have died, but they do say that the Valyrians are not like other men.”

A sudden creak of the door startled Bran and Jon from their imaginations and Lord Eddard appeared in the nursery, and as his eyes fell on the scene before him, they twinkled with amusement. “Nan, what tales are you filling these boys’ heads with now?” he asked. “Or should I not ask for fear of giving _myself_ bad dreams?”

Nan chuckled, and air hissed out between the gaps of her missing teeth. “My lord, I only tell them what they ask to hear.”

With a chuff of resigned laughter, Lord Eddard stepped fully into the room and came to talk with the boys. “There is nothing so intoxicating as a tale woven by a true teller,” he told them. “But Nan’s stories are crib tales, nothing more. You would do well to remember that. Now, it is late and the two of you still haven’t retired to bed, so I think you should go. And Nan,” he added, turning back to the old woman. “Please remember they are but children. I do not wish to see them frightened to go to sleep.”

Nan inclined her head. Beckoning to Jon and Bran, Lord Eddard added, “Bed now for small boys. To your rooms. Your brother and sisters are already abed.”

Jon got to his feet, but hesitated. “Nan,” he asked, “what was the boy called in your story?”

“The boy?” she hummed low in her throat. “King Brandon named him Balerion.”

“Like Aegon’s dragon…”

“Aegon’s dragon was named after a Valyrian God,” interjected Lord Eddard. “But come, children, enough talk of dragons and Valyria. Both are long gone and I am quite sure we shall not see their like again.”

Lord Eddard picked Bran up and then placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder and took them both away from the nursery, down the darkened hallway and into the room they shared with Robb. A single torch still burned low on the wall, but the fire had died down to a slow-burning mound of coals, leaving the room warm but dimly lit. Robb was huddled beneath his blankets, fast asleep and snoring softly, and did not stir as Lord Eddard softly set Bran down on his bed. He grabbed up the cool blankets; they would warm in time. “Father?” said Jon, hunkering down in his own bed. “Do you think Nan’s stories are true or are they just made up?”

With a soft chuff, Lord Eddard replied, “They are but stories, Jon, and a story can be told thousands of times over hundreds of years by many different people, and every story changes in the telling. Every person tells it differently. Every year that passes renders the story changed until it is impossible to say how much truth or lie is in a tale by the time you hear it.”

“So it could be true then?” asked Bran.

“It could be. It could not be. It is hard to say when several thousand years have passed since the tale was first told. Therefore… think what you wish. But be thankful that, either way, it is only a story.”

Lord Eddard was at the door now and he opened it, letting a rush of cool air funnel into the room. “Goodnight, boys, and sleep well. I shall see you on the morrow at breakfast.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

And with that, their father left and closed the door behind him, leaving two small boys alone in the dead of night to dream of things that might have been or might not have been.  


End file.
